A Sandwich a Day Keeps the Conman Away
by Chasingpaper14
Summary: A sequel to It Was the Sandwich's Fault. The day after the Great Sunday Morning Sandwich Fiasco, Neal's tracker still hasn't arrived.


**It would help to read the first story in the series (It Was the Sandwich's Fault) before this one to understand what's happened as this is the sequel to it. Basically Neal's tracker broke and this is the second day without one. You can find the first story here s/10516801/1/It-Was-the-Sandwich-s-Fault  
**

It was three in the afternoon at the White Collar offices, and Neal's new anklet had yet to make a show. It had taken all Peter's willpower to not cuff his favourite con to the desk during work hours, and even then he only reconsidered after being reminded it took Caffrey under eight seconds to pick them. And that was on a bad day.

Instead he sat at his desk up in his office, glancing up every ten minutes to check on him only to receive a trademark 'know it all' smirk that drove him up the wall.

This had to be some kind of conman scheming - Caffrey must have planned this all along so he could...could...

Land himself in an office full of FBI agents only to break out on their coffee break?

Yeah, keep working on that theory Peter. He sighed - The FBI wouldn't be willing to pay for another hotel if his tracker didn't turn up. Which meant he'd have to bring Neal home - his home - which equates to bringing home a puppy on a sugar rush. Except this particular puppy is a criminal with an appreciation of expensive artwork, and is highly talented at getting on people's nerves.

"Neal, give me back my wallet before I break your arm."

Peter looked across the bullpen towards Neal's desk to see Diana stood in front of it with her arms folded. A wide eyed Neal was trying to make himself smaller in the chair whilst still maintaining his confidence and fearless ego. It wasn't working. A few seconds under Diana's menacing glare and the wallet was returned, the conman's eyes twinkling the way they had at the airport when he'd been 'harmlessly flirting' with his probie. He just doesn't give up.

"And my handcuff key."

Point proven.

"Is the FBI always this disorganised? I mean, if word gets out what an FBI work release deal is actually like you may have to order more anklets."

Neal was sat on the edge of his desk beside Agent Jones, both staring up towards the overlooking balcony where Peter was pacing back and forth and yelling into his phone. They'd worked out he was phoning the Marshals, now that work was over and White Collar's criminal consultant was still trackerless. From what they could gather, the Marshals were insisting that Neal was a major flight risk, but were then still going with the 'you'll have to wait another day for it to arrive' routine. Peter was seconds away from telling them to shove their tracking anklets - well, you get the picture.

"You've been out of prison a week and you've already managed to get on everyone's nerves and make a fool of the US Marshals. What's your secret?" Neal could sense the humour in the other agent's voice despite him trying to remain professional.

Jones was the first to take a genuine liking to Neal. Diana said she 'tolerated him', which gave him enough warning to stay clear unless he was _really_ bored. The other agents were polite in including him, but made sure to keep their possessions out of reach. But Jones had looked upon him equally, not as a criminal or a thief, but as a consultant. A colleague. Neal knew not to screw up this budding friendship - he deeply respected the man.

"And my presence amongst the FBI doesn't make your work the tiniest bit more interesting?"

"Interesting, yes. Easy...not so much." The agent smiled, moving away when Peter headed down the stairs towards Neal, not wanting to be caught in the chaos.

"Come on, we're leaving," Peter put on his coat, picking up Neal's fedora and placing it less than gracefully on the man's head.

"Hey! that's vintage beaver felt you know. Where are we going?" Neal paused to make a dramatic groan of disapproval. "Not another hotel?"

"No."

"Then where?"

"My house."

"Peter!" Neal stopped mid walk and turned around, causing Peter to stop sharply to prevent walking right into him. "We've only been working together a week and we're having a sleepover?" Neal being Neal made sure he was loud enough for the closer agents to hear, who exchanged amused glances. Peter was about to correct Neal on what this night was actually going to consist of, and to put some ground rules in place, but the conman was already happily bouncing off towards the elevator.

They took a 'brief' trip to Neal's apartment to grab an overnight bag, which obviously meant Peter would be stood there for twenty minutes while Neal weighed the pros and cons of taking his coconut and hibiscus infused soap rather than lavender and honey, and of course he would have to give his opinion on a good six pairs of PJ's before Neal chose one. How Neal managed to evade the FBI for so long when it took him this long to pack for one night, Peter would never know.

On the way to the Burke's, Peter made it clear that if Neal asked just once how long the journey would take, he would be walking behind the car the entire way. So in the end, Peter managed to get home with only a minor headache.

"I still think this is your doing," Peter said as they neared the front door.

"Right, Peter, because I managed to bribe the entire US marshals to do my bidding the moment I was out of prison."

"It wouldn't surprise me."

Peter regretted his reply the moment it came out of his mouth, for the proud, Cheshire cat smile practically radiating from the kid was killing him.

Overall, the night didn't go as bad as Peter had expected. Despite only meeting Neal for the second time now, El was more than charmed by him, and true to her word had samples of gourmet, overpriced titbits that would feature at her next event for him to try. So they spent the night discussing table layouts and all the complex shapes a napkin could be folded into in the kitchen, while Peter caught a game on TV with Satchmo by his side - who like him would much prefer a simple steak over fish eggs and fancy crackers.

A few hours later, he finally had a chance to spend some time with his wife while Neal was upstairs taking a shower. The peace however didn't last - a knock at the door forced Peter to unfurl himself from the _really _comfortable position next to Elizabeth on the couch to answer it. What greeted him was not what he expected.

"Neal!"

The very angry sounding voice of a certain Peter Burke thundered up the stairs. Neal cautiously crept towards the landing - reminding himself he had not done anything overly disruptive today - clad in blue silk Pajamas to see him stood at the door with a take-out delivery man. He instantly relaxed and made his way down the stairs, grinning and tipping his head towards Peter as if in thanks for answering the door for him. He was about to walk past Peter and pay, but the Agent held a hand out.

"Do you want to explain this?"

"I ordered takeout," Neal shrugged casually like Peter was being ridiculous, moving past the agent to the door.

"That will be eight dollars," the man told Neal. Neal took out his wallet, cash and food was exchanged before Neal closed the door and headed into the living room. Peter instinctively reached for his own wallet and yes, that definitely was Neal's wallet and Neal's money paying for takeout. Speaking of which...

Peter followed his consultant back into he other room to find him stretched out across the full length of the sofa. Peter walked past and grabbed Neal's feet to maneuver the con back to only taking up one section of the couch so he could sit down.

"You know, if this is what working with the FBI on a work release deal is 'gonna be like, this may be the best four years of my life," Neal quipped, glancing up at a very unamused Peter.

"This isn't funny you know."

"Hey, it was your guys that screwed up, not me."

Neal was right, which was even more annoying. Peter indicated towards the takeout bag which was being unwrapped with great care.

"You're still hungry? What, is Elizabeth's food not good enough for you or something? What did you buy?"

"A sandwich."

"You paid eight dollars for a sandwich?" Peter looked entirely dumbfounded.

The conman gasped in mock horror. "Peter you should be ashamed of yourself! This is not just 'a sandwich'," he replied, illustrating his point by making quotation marks in the air. "This is a chicken and pesto Italian seeded baguette with mushrooms, Greek tomatoes and roasted red peppers topped with feta cheese and just the right combination of balsamic vinegar and garlic-"

"Which you ordered from my house. Without asking."

"Well, I wouldn't have had to order a sandwich if a certain someone hadn't stormed my apartment with an army of White Collar's finest right before I ate the other one."

"Did you forge that discount voucher too?"

"No actually, I got it through the mail."

Peter opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. To save him the embarrassment of making a very public impression of a goldfish, he turned away and stalked off into the kitchen.

"Fine, but if you get any crumbs on my carpet I'm putting you back in prison."

A Sandwich a Day Keeps the Conman Away


End file.
